Chapter 17
“Mahoney, Davenport. A word.”
I cringe inwardly at Coach’s sharp request as I gather my stuff slowly.
All around us, chairs scrape over the hardwood floor as our teammates shoulder their backpacks and duck out of the room.
Felix and Evander are last, lingering in the doorway, pity on both their faces.
I give them a small nod, and they shuffle out, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
“It’s my fault, Coach,” Seb speaks up before the silence has a chance to settle between us. There’s a note of stubbornness in his voice, hinting that this isn’t his first rodeo.
Ever since Wagner took over as head coach last year, Seb’s had a lot of one-on-ones with him.
Seb sure isn’t an easy player, but our former coach let him get away with a lot—whether out of respect for his family’s legacy (Davenport is a big name to swing around in these halls) or genuine understanding of his personal situation.
Coach Wagner, however, doesn’t give any player an inch of leeway, no matter the name.
And while I’d usually agree with that, things are, in fact, starting to feel personal between him and my best friend.
“Elaborate.” Coach is closing his laptop, not even glancing at us as he unplugs the cable from the projector. The video we watched over the past two hours vanishes in a split second, leaving an empty wall behind.
“It’s my fault we were late, sir,” Seb clarifies, shifting in his spot next to me. I try to nudge his elbow, but he avoids contact by stepping to the side. “I’m currently carpooling with Mi— uhm…Mahoney, and I didn’t leave the house on time.”
“But we still would’ve made it on time had I been ready,” I interject, my heart rate kicking up at the lie.
Seb's head whips around, his dark eyes narrowing as he subtly shakes his head at me, but I ignore him. I can’t let him face another of these verbal beatings alone.
Not when he’s the one doing me a favor by doubling as my personal driver.
I really need to get my car sorted out. It’ll be the first thing I do once my scholarship money for the fall semester comes in.
“Something the matter with your driver’s license, Mahoney?”
I hold my breath when Coach Wagner’s eyes meet mine.
He’s the youngest D1 head coach in college football to date.
He started at B-Tech as an offensive coordinator, then took over the program when our former coach suffered a heart attack right before the start of last year’s season.
Sometimes I think he puts on an extra layer of hardassness to make up for his age.
“No, sir. My car broke down, and I haven’t found a chance yet to get it fixed,” I answer, watching with relief as his shoulders sag a little.
“Didn’t find a chance because you’re so hammered with classes over the summer?”
I press my lips into a thin line at his snarky remark, just giving him a tight smile. “I’ll try to get it taken care of soon.”
“See that you do. I don’t care if you two are driving alone or carpooling with the fucking president—you’re seniors now.
Hell, we made you captain, Mahoney. What kind of role model do you think you are, strolling in here five, ten minutes late every fucking session with your fucking Starbucks coffee in hand? ”
We sure didn’t “stroll in”. Instead, we snuck in like burglars—but I don’t mention that, or the fact that the coffee isn’t from Starbucks but home-brewed.
“Sorry, Coach,” Seb mumbles next to me, his arms crossed over his chest. His nails dig into his flesh, the skin between the black lines of ink turning white. “It won’t happen agai—”
“Don’t fucking ‘sorry, Coach’ me, Davenport,” Coach snaps, a faint note of his German accent coming through as he gets more and more worked up.
“Training and tape watching are voluntary over the summer. If you can’t get your ass out of bed in time, then do us all a favor and stay away.
Party all night, sleep all day; I don’t give a fuck.
But once official training kicks back in, I expect you two to have your shit together again.
Last names and past successes won’t keep you on this roster. Understood?”
“Understood,” we repeat in unison, Seb’s voice nothing but a faint whisper.
He’s dug his fingers into his sides now, holding on to himself.
Instinctively, I draw myself up taller, squaring my shoulders.
Not that it will do anything to impress Wagner—he’s a former NFL player and still built like he just hung up his cleats last week.
“About the training, Coach,” I start reluctantly. Telling him now that I’m about to leave for the rest of the summer is horrible timing, but I can’t go without a word, or he’ll think I’m sulking over the chewing-out.
Wagner lets out a small sigh, like his patience with us is hanging by the thinnest of threads, before he looks at me from under the rim of his ball cap.
“Yeah?”
“I’m…uhm. I promised to help out a friend on his parents' farm for the next few weeks, so I won’t be around campus. I just wanted you to know where I was in case you were…wondering.”
Coach’s eyes snap over to Seb immediately, as if this is his fault.
Raising both hands in defense, my best friend shakes his head. “It’s not me. My parents don’t have a farm, Coach,” he rushes out, and Wagner rolls his eyes before turning to me.
“Is this about that summer job?” he asks, a note of suspicion in his voice.
“No, Coach, just doing them a favor. They have a cherry orchard and are pressed for harvest hands this year,” I explain honestly.
“I’m not going to earn a cent.” Which is true—and I also wouldn’t have wanted that, even when Linden offered.
But this way I’ll still be able to cover food costs for a few weeks, not to mention work on Linden’s and my very personal syllabus together.
“Okay. But make sure to stay out of the trees; I can’t afford to have you on crutches before the season’s even started,” he grumbles, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I have no idea how a professional cherry harvest works, but I’m pretty confident I can avoid broken limbs.
“Thank you, Coach.”
Wagner nods before he tucks his notebook under one arm, grabbing his empty mug with his free hand. He leaves the room without another word, casually switching the lights off in passing, leaving us behind in the darkness.
“That’s it,” I announce a few hours later when I put the last duffel into the back of Linden’s truck.
Next to me, Nicko lets out a long sigh. Outside the hockey rink, I’ve never seen him get emotional before, but now that we’re ready to leave, I detect a suspicious shimmer in his green eyes.
He’s been rubbing at them furiously with the back of his hand the whole evening, complaining about the dry air and the hot weather and everything else he could possibly think of.
“Maybe we’ll see each other again before you leave,” Linden tells him, opening his arms for a hug.
“Probably not. Hockey camp will wrap up in a week or so, and then Nate and Xan will help me pack up my stuff before we fly to the Netherlands,” Nicko explains, pouting.
“Oh, now, now, what’s with that face, you big baby? You’re going to play for New York, not Mars,” Olli teases as he steps up to hug us goodbye. “Just don’t be a cheapskate and fly us out to your games with all your NHL money.”
I snort, even though my stomach squeezes with sympathy. I just can’t picture myself in his position next year, which is absurd, considering how this—leaving college and moving into pro sports—has always been the goal.
“I’m living on rookie money, not a veteran’s salary,” Nicko grumbles, but his small smile tells me we’ll have tickets coming our way.
“You go give those big hockey boys hell, shorty.” I punch his arm lightly when it’s my turn to say goodbye, and he flips me off.
“Do me a favor and keep the house from getting burnt down,” I ask Seb, who’s standing off to the side a little awkwardly.
He insisted on seeing me off, but I suspect he would’ve come over anyway to feed those tiny furballs their bottles and let them crawl all over his lap.
Since Marisol has already left for her summer vacation, and Sasha plans to follow tomorrow morning, Olli can use a little supervision.
Seb laughs, then bumps my fist before patting my back in a one-armed hug. “No promises, man. But be careful around those cherry trees.”
I can’t see his eyes behind the designer sunglasses on his nose, but his voice sounds strained.
“Hey,” I murmur, prolonging the moment to hand him my keys to the Nook. “You’ll be alright. Just don’t let Coach get to you, okay? Maybe take some time off as well, get away for a bit.”
Seb nods, but then shakes his head, thinking better of it. “The kittens…Yardley can’t manage them on his own all the time,” he reminds me as he pockets my keys. “But…we’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”
“Ready to wave goodbye to your summer vacation and get exploited on a farm?” Linden grins at me when all the hugs have been passed around and he’s given final instructions on how to handle the kittens, so we can finally slam the truck doors closed.
He’s already typed our destination into Google Maps and is now fiddling with the phone holder.
If traffic is kind to us, we should be able to make the drive in about three hours.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I laugh as I take command over the radio to find a country music station.
We make it as far as the next intersection when Linden slams on the brakes while letting out a string of curses.
“Whoa!” I brace myself on the dashboard, the seatbelt digging into my shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Sorry,” he groans, ducking his head at my question, a soft blush spreading on his cheeks as he’s already putting the truck into reverse. “It’s just—I forgot to pack Keeping Noah.”
“Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve come prepared!
” I laugh and reach down to where I’ve jammed my backpack between my legs, rummaging around until my fingers brush the cover of the beat-up paperback.
Pulling it out with a triumphant grin, I flip to where I’ve stuck last week’s grocery bill as a makeshift bookmark.
“And I already tabbed all those sexy barn scenes as well.”
“I don’t think getting down and dirty in the hay is as sexy as Noah and Owen made it sound,” Linden warns me, but I only shrug.
“I’m open to other places, too.”